


Drape Your Heart in Gold and I Will Count the Silver

by victoriousscarf



Series: Beware of Heroes [6]
Category: Dune - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:23:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros is obsessed with Fingon's hair--and the lack of gold in it since everything changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drape Your Heart in Gold and I Will Count the Silver

Maedhros stared down at the twisted pile of metal at his feet, kicking it lightly before taking a foolish step back. The general was dead, though fire still flickered around its shoulders and its gold eyes still looked like they could see.

The generals were awful machines, Maedhros thought, stepping closer again and coughing into his elbow, the smoke and gas in the air making his eyes water. They were lumbering giants, monstrous hunks of metal that spit out fire as they moved. It was rare to see one fallen and Maedhros could not look away.

“We lost a lot of people today,” Maglor said behind him, rubbing a hand over his forehead and trying to remove the dust and oil there that was leaking down into his eyes.

“Yes,” Maedhros said, taking a step back and stopping again, staring at the gold eyes which were empty now. It seemed like the beast still stared at him. “We’ll have to see if there’s anything that can be done for the people of this planet and move on.”

“Salvage teams are already here,” Maglor said, shadowing his eyes and looking up at the sky. “Ah. And the scavengers too.”

Maedhros snorted. “At least they know by now to let us pick over the battlefield first. Then they can get whatever scraps they can make a living out of.”

“We should still go,” Maglor said, watching his brother’s back.

“Yes,” Maedhros agreed again, taking another step back before abruptly deciding against that, turning back to the smoldering remains of the general and leaning down, tearing the eyes out of its twisted face.

“What are you doing?” Maglor asked, head cocked to one side as Maedhros cradled the gold against his chest.

Maedhros flickered a smile at him and he shook his head. “Nevermind. I’m certain I don’t actually want to know.”

-0-

As they salvage teams packed up their freights, Maedhros approached Celebrimbor, trying not to think about how young his nephew was, face still raw and round with youth. “I have a favor,” he said, causing Celebrimbor to startle and look at him.

“A favor? From my eldest uncle? That is rare.”

Maedhros wondered if his smile looked as strained as it felt. “It is,” he agreed. “But it’s specific. And… you do have some talents in what I desire.”

“Alright,” he said, hands resting on his hips, gloves covering all but his fingers and Maedhros wondered again how desperate they were that a children fought with them now. Or that he was old enough that others were children to him now. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you,” Maedhros started and displayed the golden eyes. “You can keep whatever is left over. But I want something specific made.”

“Gold,” Celebrimbor said, eyes lighting up. “That’s rare now. Alright. What do you want made?”

-0-

Maglor was playing his odd instrument, which Maedhros was certain he had cobbled together from the wreck of a harp and an electric guitar. He had never asked, and Maglor had never told him how he found it. But when he felt at peace, he would sit in the mess, playing it and singing. It made the others smile, and cluster around him.

But Maedhros did not feel like sharing in his brother’s stolen happiness, sitting alone by the doorway, though he had finished eating his rations long ago. He kept waiting, mentally ticking down the time from the announcement that Fingon’s squad had landed. They would have to cool down their ships, go through inspection and then a debriefing and would finally be released to eat or sleep as they needed until the next mission.

Any moment Fingon should be walking through that door, and Maedhros felt the gold in his pocket like a weight, pulling all of him toward the ground with anticipation. It had been over a month since he had seen  Fingon,  before they headed for different sectors.

He stared at the doorway so intently for a moment he hadn’t realized Fingon had stepped through, oil and grease on his face and his cheek and throat red from scabbed over cuts. Maedhros was on his feet and moving before Fingon had turned his head enough to notice him. “Fingon,” he said, and hated how desperate a month had made him. He felt lost now on missions where they were apart, his sleep troubled with nightmares that Fingon was lost on the ice again and he would never see him again.

“Maedhros,” Fingon said, and sounded as relieved as Maedhros. “It’s good to see—” he started as Maedhros engulfed him. “You,” he finished and laughed, hands coming up around Maedhros’ shoulders. “I heard about your victory. I only wish I came with such good news.”

Maedhros could feel the start of a blush on his cheekbones as he pulled away. “It was not my victory.”

“Not your victory?” Fingon teased. “You who flew the last run? You finally felled the general itself? Not your victory indeed.”

“You haven’t even washed,” Maedhros said instead. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” Fingon said, shaking his head. “It’s alright, I’m not really ready to eat yet,” he said when Maedhros’ face twisted up. “Still too worked up.”

They were in the corner of the room and Maedhros considered a moment before giving in to his own desires. “I have something for you,” he said and Fingon’s brows shot up.

“You, a gift?” he asked, hesitantly. They had few possessions yet, and Maedhros was fairly certain aside from his clothing, the only thing Fingon still called his own was his harp, beaten as the poor instrument was.

Maedhros pulled him back into the hallway and Fingon followed easily. “Is it so private as that?” Fingon asked, almost teasing and Maedhros shrugged.

“Not so private, but you know how Maglor gets when he thinks there’s a story.”

“Ah,” Fingon said, with a sardonic smile. “Sometimes I wonder what sort of story he would write about us.”

“I don’t want to know,” Maedhros said and hesitated again before he pulled the golden bead from his jacket pocket. It was long, golden swirls twisting around themselves up and down, and designed to be knotted or braided into hair. Before Fingon could do much more than widen his eyes, Maedhros had reached forward to slid it into his dark hair, clumsily knotting it into his hair. He had forced Maglor to endure his attempts to braid hair one handed but had not made enough progress to risk it with Fingon staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide.

Not taking his gaze away or closing his mouth, Fingon raised a hand to brush his fingers over the bead, Maedhros dropping his own hand quickly to ensure they did not brush together.

“It’s gold,” he said, because Fingon was still staring at him. “Like you used to wear in your hair. I took it from that general and—” He swallowed because Fingon tipped his head, testing the weight of the new addition but did not take his eyes away. “I wanted it for you.”

“You won it,” Fingon said and Maedhros swallowed hard.

“Yes,” he said, voice faint and they were still in the hallway, they could still hear Maglor’s song, which had turned bawdy, and other people were passing them in both directions to and from the mess hall.

“Maedhros,” Fingon said and he could not bear it anymore, stepping back because otherwise he was going to bridge the gap between them and he was not sure Fingon wanted that. He was not sure he could even dare it yet.

“I missed the gold in your hair,” he said instead and Fingon’s mouth dropped again, and he looked at Maedhros like the sun, like he was the only thing Fingon could see, like he was the center of Fingon’s gravity pull. “You—you should go back, eat something. Rest. It’s good to have you back for now.”

He took another step back and was stopped by Fingon’s voice. “Maedhros,” he said, raising his hands, spread out in front of him to the side before dropping them. “Just,” he raised his hands again. “Just _kiss me_ already,” and Maedhros snapped forward before the words had a chance to die, lunging into the space created by Fingon’s stretched out hands.

He kissed Fingon, the stump of his arm on Fingon’s shoulder and his hand wrapped up in his hair, fingers brushing the gold and Fingon made a sound like he’d been shot, like he was in pain before twisting around and up, hands tangled in Maedhros’ jacket.

For years, Maedhros had dreamed about kissing Fingon. It had been slow and sweet when he was young, dreaming that he would one day simply find the courage to approach the other boy and press a chaste kiss to his mouth. Even in his fantasies, he had acknowledged that he would probably run away after that.

It had become something else as he got older, dreaming about pinning Fingon down and covering him with his whole body before kissing him, twining together almost instantly.

After Fingon had been left behind in the ice, when he had dared to even think about him, he had dreamed about going back, rescuing him—and probably the others who were still alive but they were minor in his dream, simple background noise because everything was Fingon—and Fingon would look at him and forgive him and Maedhros would kiss him in victory.

He had promised himself then, if Fingon was alive, if they saw each other again, he would not be afraid.

But it had not worked out that way, because he had been delirious, disbelieving when Fingon had touched his battered skin. “I’m sorry,” Fingon had said, and he had been crying and even certain it was a hallucination, Maedhros could not lean forward enough to kiss him. After that everything had been blinding pain and Fingon’s voice being the only thing that grounded him.

When he saw Fingon again, he had been faced with a brittle, angry creature that was still Fingon, but with shorn hair and cold eyes. He carried scars that Maedhros could not fathom and so he had retreated again, allowing the space between them, the place where they did not talk.

None of his idle dreams or fantasies were like this though.

Fingon urged his mouth open, their breath mixing together and everything was hot, Fingon’s mouth on his and his skin itched with sweat, pressed against Fingon and wearing too many layers suddenly. He felt like he was burning as Fingon groaned, rumbling against his chest.

When he drew back, unable to draw air into his lungs, Fingon followed and somehow they fumbled together, Fingon lifting himself with his hands on Maedhros’ shoulders before wrapping his legs around his waist and Maedhros pressed him against the wall, there in the hallway.

They could still hear Maglor’s song, there were still people passing them and it did not matter, because Maedhros sucked on Fingon’s tongue to hear his moan again, and one of Fingon’s hands cupped the back of his neck, the other splayed across his shoulder blades.

“I want,” Fingon managed to pant, strained and Maedhros kissed him again before Fingon pulled back enough to drag his teeth across his cheekbone. “I want,” he said again, insisting.

“Yes,” Maedhros agreed, driving him into the wall and kissing the lobe of his hear, Fingon’s mouth gasping against his skin. “Please,” he managed and Fingon clung to him, holding himself up with his own strength and the wall, Maedhros simply trying to leech all the warmth from his skin. “Please, Fingon,” he said, not caring that Fingon had not eaten yet, or that they were both filthy, Fingon from the battle and him from working with the other pilots earlier that day while every moment seemed to stretch too long as he waited.

“Come,” Fingon said, shoving him back enough to plant his feet back on the ground, though he pulled Maedhros down from another kiss with a hand at the back of his neck. They stumbled through the compound toward the sleeping quarters, kissing and touching the whole way, Fingon almost tripping and Maedhros having to press him into another wall at one of the hallway’s junctions.

The entire resistance probably saw them, entangled together, nothing mattering except the feel of the other.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> ... Pretty sure introducing Celebrimbor to this verse was a /super bad idea/


End file.
